BOOK OF VERSE 



S 3513 
074 B6 
898 
opy 1 



A. L. M. GOTTSCHALK 




^ 



A Book of Verse. 



Alfred L, M. Gottschaife 



Fniiacklphia : 

PRINTED BY FRANCS M RUMBLE. 
62 North Fourth Street. 

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Copyright, 1898 
by the Author. 






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Deaicaiea. 



CONTENTS. 

At Daybreak 5 

Regina Populomm 7 

Tramping 9 

One in the Crowd 10 

The King's Daughter 11 

Rosemonde 14 

The Small Knight's Outgoing 18 

The Quest 19 

A Mot for the Hunting Horn 20 

To Some Dead Viol Maker 21 

The Ghost o' the Gods 22 

Winter Twilight 23 

Her Rose 24 

An Offering 25 

Et Nos Mutamur 26 

Cynical 27 

After the Fight 28 

The Clinching Argument 29 

St. Sylvester's Eve 30 

In Chapel 31 



A BOOK OF VERSE. 

t^* <^* ^* t^* ^* ^* 

AT DAYBREAK. 



Under the rising sun he lay, 
Whose ruddy, golden rays shot o'er 
The shining sea and rugged shore 

Lifeless. For him thus brake the day. 

It was a great, gold dawn that came 
To find him lying there supine, 
A stark form motionless ; the brine 

Lapping his shoon, and the dawn's flame 

Gilding his set young features there. 
His mail-clad arms athwart his breast 
Lay crossed, and there was chilly rest 

On brow and cheek, as if of prayer. 

Beside him lay upon the sand 
His falchion bared and shining blue, 
Also the splintered lance of yew 

Lay, gisant, on his other hand. 



No sound, no sign to tell the story 
Further than this : A dead man prone 
Upon a beach, the blue sea's moan 

About him and the red dawn's glory. 

How came this death about ? None knows. 
Read each the legend as he may. 
Yet as I sing Lord God, I pray 

Thou give my life such restful close ! 

Perchance some beast came out o' the sea, 
And wound him round with wormy toils, 
Till, crushed amid the dragon's coils, 

He met his death right manfully ; 

Or evil sprites that flit by night 
Clutched him, and clutching slew him, or 
Some passing champion smote him sore, 

And left him there in sorry plight. 

Or else — since often strange things be — 
After a weary pilgrimage 
He halted at the water's edge, 

To watch the sunset and the sea, 

And when the cold, pure moon rose up 
His fluttering soul sent forth a prayer, 
And wide-eyed saw in Heaven there 

The vision of the Joseph's cup. 



Then o'er his knee he brake the lance 
And snapped the useless sword in twain 
Flinging both far, and then was fain 

To drink deep the moon's radiance, 

Before he lay him down in peace — 
Arms crossed, eyes veiled, lips tremulous 
With prayers unuttered . . . 

Haply thus 

God's angel brought his soul's release. 

REGINA POPULORUM. 



She was a queen, such as a queen should be, 
Who dragged a jewelled flood of rich 

brocade 
Over the tesselated floors, inlaid 
With hued stones, haughtily. 

And as she walked she went in regal guise, 
Unconscious, sowing heartaches and numb 

pain ; 
Upon her carven lips a calm disdain, 
Indifference in her eyes. 



8 

Nor looked she at the tinselled troubadours, 
Whose slender fingers fittingly caressed 
The tense strings into love tunes ; she 
possessed 
Her thoughts for paramours. 

And she, the queen — 'twas thus the legend 
ran — 

Who could have set her small foot, silken- 
shod, 

Upon the necks of the elect of God, 
Cared for no living man. 

Then, as men sometimes do, her knights 

grew wild 
For frenzied jousts, and many a bright blade 

brake, 
Spattered with blood and brains, for her 

love's sake. 
And yet she never smiled 

Till, frighted at the sea of tossing crests, 
The clarion's blare, or the steel's strident 

ring, 
Her ape, a noisome and outlandish thing, 
Cowered, grinning, between her breasts. 



TRAMPING. 



A crazy traveler am I, 

Heart-free — care-free, 
The little dusty butterfly, 
That kisses flowers and flutters by, 

And bears me company 

Is kith and kin to me. 

I am the step-child of the sun 
The husband of the summer moons 
The birds and I sing two-part tunes, 

They are my brothers, every one. 

The wild, free winds that fret and blare 
The rushing rains, the stars that shine 
The rainbows and the dawns are mine, 

And mine to follow everywhere. 

Let honest folk look all askance 

And silly-wise 
Proclaim one but a freak-of-chance, 
My life the most disgraceful dance 
K'er danced beneath the skies — 
Dear Lord, where are their eyes ? 



IO 



ONE IN THE CROWD. 

From matin chime to even bell, 

Now up, now down, 

He wanders through the town ; 
Hven the blind beggar knows his footsteps* 

well. 

His face is void, preoccupied 

With some vague thought 

That evermore, half-caught, 
Eludes him as he stares, eyes opened wide, 

Unwatchiul of the passing show 

And of the throng 

That, hurrying along, 
With jostling elbows bump him as they go. 

Through trodden mud his steps he plies 

— Fate's humble tool. 

And yet this wide-mouthed fool 
Walks with his head among the spangled 

skies ! 



II 
THE KING'S DAUGHTER. 



Along the marble piers, 

That kiss the curled blue water 

Walks the king's daughter, 

(The barefoot Cordeliers, 
Wine-bloated, garlic-scented, 
Call her demented — 

Thus has she been for years.) 
Her gold hair streams behind her, 
And the tears blind her. 

Each time a galley nears 
Her foolish, sad heart nutters ; 
Some cry she utters ! 

Then weeps such silty tears 
For the barks that, wreathed with garlands. 
Left for the far lands. 

Hers are strange, sickening fears, 
Though the riven sunbeams glancing 
Set the waves dancing. 

But the cool, curved water sneers 
At her sorrow and repining, 

And the sun keeps shining. 



12 

NOWELL. 



Little white child that wast born to-day 

All in a lowly manger 
Under the great Star's radiant ray, 

Save, oh save me fro' danger ! 

Maid Mary she looked on the broad hillside, 

For she had grievous fears, 
Maid Mary she looked on the plain so wide, 

And her blue eyes filled with tears. 

" O Joseph, O Joseph " and " Joseph," she 
cried, 

" The promised Star shines bright, 
But there's never a bed nor a fireside 

For me and my babe to-night ! " 

" Take heart, take heart, Maid Mary," he 
said, 

"And trust in the guiding star, 
The God of Abram his tent shall spread 

Where you and the baby are ! " 

And over the dank grass and over the plain, 
And over the hill's broad crest, 

Maid Mary she went in her dolorous pain, 
While the little child leaped in her breast. 



13 

" O Joseph, O Joseph " and " Joseph," she 
cried, 

I never can reach the town, 
For weal or for woe and whatever betide, 

Here must I lay me down." 

i 'One step," quoth Joseph, "but one step 
more, 

And then we reach the city — " 
Maid Mary she stopped at a stable door, 

So pale, 'twas wonderful pity ! 

" Nay, Joseph, nay, Joseph, nay, Joseph," 
she cried, 

" I faint for my pain," said she, 
" And here must thou make us a lowly bed, 

For my little one and for me." 

And so was the little child born that night, 

In the dark and lowly stall, 
He that was Power and Radiance and Light, 

He that was Lord of All. 

And never a soul knew the wondrous tale, 
Save three who were called by the Star, 

Who came when the dawn came, faint and 
pale, 
Three glittering kings from afar. 



U 

And each bent the knee to Him and to Her, 

And each his gifts unrolled 
Odorous frankincense, fragrant myrrh 

And blazing splendor of gold. 

And the ox and the ass looked each at the 

other 
With, dull, slow, stupid eyes, 

Saying, "This must, forsooth, be some 

King, oh brother, 
That in our manger lies ! " 

Little white child that wast born to-day 

All in a lowly manger ; 
Under the great Star's radiant ray, 

Save, oh save us fro' danger ! 

ROSEMONDE, 



She waited long. But still he never came 
— The Knight she dreamed of in her girlish 

days, 
Strong, chaste and beautiful, for men to gaze 
And women wonder at. Her taper's flame 
Burned each night at her window, in th* 
event 



15 

That having come at last, her Knight might 

see 
That she had kept the vigil loyally, 

And conjure up her lithe form slightly bent 
Over the tapestry, whereon she strove 
To limn the legend of a time long dead, 
And a Mysterious Cup that vanished. 

Beneath her jewelled fingers, as they wove 
The strands of azure, gules and paly golc 
The picture grew, and still he never came. 
Yet she bent daily above her broidery-frame, 
And each new night her casement, as of 

old, 
Shone for him. Oft she fancied he had 
come, 
She heard his charger's hoofbeats on the 

stones, 
She dreamt a dream of martial trumpet 
tones, 
And warring clangor of the kettledrum, 
And loud huzzas, whose every echo stirred 
Her casement-blind. Down looked she to 

the court, 
Many a time, to see naught but the sport 
Of the rough, noisy men-at-arms. No 
word 



i6 

She spake, but wept. Anon, they tried to 
wed 
Her to some kinsman, who, 'twas said, found 

grace 
In the King's sight. She lifted up her face 
From her embroider}-, " I will wait," she 

said, 
"Yet for a while." And so the years 
wore on. 
Her women, one by one, were portioned off 
To divers husbands, there were not enough 
Left, in the end, to help her don a gown 
Or coif. Th' insensate things about her 
room 
Grew strangely living now. With dull, 

round eyes 
Th' heraldic beasts upon the tapestries, 
And the carved leopards, couchant in the 

gloom 
Of obscure cornices, looked down at her 
Wistfully. Oft she thought that she must 

be 
Possessed. She'd tell her beads on bended 
knee, 
Then rise, once more to see things as they 
were. 



17 

Thus she dreamed on, and dreaming knew 
no shame, 
Until — one night, when the All-seeing Eye 
Decreed a newer era — the cleft sky 

Brake, and the castle vanished in thin 
flame. 



Who liveth loyal to his trust, men say, 
Even in this age, grows mightier than Kings 
To read the meaning of the Unseen Things. 
To such an one, who striveth day by day 
In outer darkness, there will come a light 
Resplendent. It will lead him past all ill, 
To her who dreameth, sad-eyed, waiting still 
The coming of her liege, the Unsullied 

Knight. 
They twain will look into each other's 
eyes 
— Just one swift glance — then linking hand 

in hand, 
Will walk abroad, and travel through that 
land 
Of mystery into greater mysteries. 



i8 
THE SMALL KNIGHT'S OUTGOING, 



Over the causeway and through the tall gate, 

Gallantly, gallantly riding, 

Cometh a small knight, all elate 

With the joy of his harness's golden weight 

— Down the steep hillside and out of the 

town, 
Gallantly, gallantry, galloping down. 

Blue overhead arch the azure-domed skies, 
Full of the coolr Springtime's splendor ; 
Brown at the hill's foot the broad highway 

lies, 
Stretching far out beyond reach of his eyes, 
Into the land of Great-deeds-to-be-done, 
Where his courser shall carry him gallop- 
ing on. 

Into the morning so proudly rides he 
— Handsome himself as the morning ! — 
Gold curls from under steel casque floating 

free, 
Blue eyes so full of youth's high hope and 

glee; 
Galloping, galloping, recklessly bold, 
Into the new life and out of the old ! 



19 

Jesu-babe, Son of our All- Mighty Lord 
— Born without sin and dead sinless — 
Over this small knight have watch and have 

ward ! 
Keep Thou unsullied his 'scutcheon and 

sword ! 
Long let him gallop about among men, 
Till he draw rein at last at Thy portals ! 

Amen. 

THE QUEST, 

" Full many a knight, " old Merlin cried, 
" Has laughed at my behest, 

And riding forth, as now you ride, 
Forgot his sacred quest. 

For many loiter by the; way 

To catch some maiden's eye " — 

But nothing did Sir Mordaunt say, 
And, laughingly, rode by. 

Sir Mordaunt never found the Grail, 

And, ere the year was o'er, 
Old Merlin saw him, shrunk and pale, 

Beside his castle^door. 



20 

" I heard," the sage exclaimed in wrath, 
" How thou hast wrecked thy life ; 

Departing from fair glory's path 
To bring thee back — a wife ! " 

" Yes/' said Sir Mordaunt, "I did fail, 

But now I rue my error ; 
I went to seek the Holy Grail, 

And found a Holy Terror ! ' ' 

'A MOT FOR THE HUNTING-HORN." 



So-ho, So-ho, 
Blow my good horn, blow ! 
The rest of the chase may blow for the deer 
That is lying dead ; but thou 
Blowest a note that One will hear, 
Knowing thereby her lover is near, 
And dreaming of her even now. 

Kven now — even now. 
Let them all of them rail at the power of love, 
'Tis little they dream o' the wiles thereof! 

So-ho, So-ho, 
My love, I love thee so ! 



21 



TO SOME DEAD VIOI^MAKER* 

Oh, viol-builder of long ago, 

Wherever you lived and whoever you were 
— Stradivarius, Maggini or Gasparo 

Does not your dead heart quiver and stir 
At the thought that her fingers and fitting 
bow 

Speak to your fiddle in accents such 

That every glistening swell and curve 
Which you fashioned so carefully, loved so 
much, 
As you fashioned it, throbs like some 
sensitive nerve, 
Under the tender spell of her touch ? 
* * * * 

None of us, doubtless, will ever find out 
Whether she plays like the Prince of Sin, 

Or, whether, perhaps, when there's no one 
about 
She talks to the soul of her violin. 

I only know that the dear child locks 

Her heart 'neath the lid of her viol-box. 



22 

THE GHOSTS 0> THE GODS. 



Priests in the purple, that secretly schemed ; 

Upstarts that rose, to lie down again ; 
Seers that prophesied ; dreamers that 
dreamed 
— Forgetting the while they were mortal 
men. 

Queens that bloomed in the olden days ; 

Warriors that warred against terrible odds, 
Poets that sung them in flamboyant lays, 

All are dead as the ghosts o' the old, dead 
gods. 

But the ghosts of the dead gods of long ago, 
As they prowl abroad by night through 
the earth, 

Peer and whisper and laugh, ho-ho, 
And nudge each other in monstrous mirth. 

They leer at our world of brick and time, 
At the churches built for the White 
Christ's sake, 
And then, as they think of the Olden Time, 
They laugh till their huge sides quiver 
and ache. 



23 

" And this," says the one to the other, 
perchance, 
Who smiles at the saying, and gravely 
nods. 
— "And this was the world that must needs 
advance 
Beyond the reign of its former gods ? " 

WINTER TWILIGHT. 



The sun is cold, and shrouded in a cloud, 
Like some old friar who in cowl of gray, 

With ashy face averted, head low bowed, 
And hands clasped on his breast, doth 
meekly pray 

For death that comes not. . . . 

Ice-bound is the stream, 
And through the leafless trees of copse and 

hill, 
The winds are whistling, chilly and shrill ; 

Afar, the lights of village households gleam 
And night is lowering. . . . 



24 

From the frozen plain — 
A faint sound, choked by Winter's sinewy 
hands, — 
Comes the harsh ringing of some distant 
train ; 
In the marsh, beside the heron's empty nest, 
Your comic poet stands. . . . 

44 HER ROSE." 



This is the rose that was pressed 

To your breast 
All night, yesternight, is it not ? 
This was your flower, this withered, brown 

blot, 
On the white of the gravel walk lying, 

And dying, 
This morning ? 

Ah, lady, and what 
Will you do, at the close 
Of some evening — with me — who was dying 

— God knows ! — 
Last night to change place with your rose ? 



25 

AN OFFERING. 



I am of those who would climb 
Higher than ever sat Peter, 
— Some may hold armor completer 

(That I confess) against Time — 

Yet I deal only in Rhyme, 
Yet I adore Rhyme and Metre, 

Words that melodiously chime 
— Silver bells could not sound sweeter — 
Make Life pass by all the fleeter. 
" Better be burnt in quick-lime/ ' 
Thus saith the wise man, " than rhyme ! ,r 
Yet I adore Rhyme and Metre. 

i/envoy. 

Lady, I've done naught sublime 
In my poor songs — some fire-eater 
Might call me a silly repeater. 

Still I dare bring you this rhyme, 
I who adore — Rhyme and Metre. 



26 

ET NOS MUTAMUR, 



Why, when the river grows a duller grey, 
And overhead the sky is overcast 
With flights of shadows, when the time is 
past 
For mad blossoming flowers of yesterday, 
Do you, who so long held my heart in 
play, 
Whisper " 'Tis* time now — I am thine at 
last?" 

Do you not know the fertile fields we 

ranged 

In fancy's love-time, now are dead and sere, 

That even the awe-struck woods are mute 

for fear, 

And bird from bird sits on the bough 

estranged ? 
Do you not know that everything is 
changed, 
Now, at the ebb-tide of the turning year ? 

O love of long ago, where are the times 
Of sweet, blind hope, and timid, furtive joys, 
The scarlet summer with its din and noise, 



27 

And where the rich and once so fluent 

rhymes ? 
— All dead. Your present love-speech 

barely chimes 
With the faint echo of a long-dead voice. 

CYNICAL? 



I might build me a syrinx, like Pan, 
Or a tortoiseshell lyre, like Apollo's, 
And in proud flights that rival the swallow's, 

Might put Metaphysics to Man. 

I might sing that Life lasts but a span, 
That this very short span's not so hollow 
As some men would make it ; 'twould follow 

That the Kosmos is built on a plan. 

Of Equality, Justice and Truth, 

— I might sing in this strain for a year, 

In a thousand-odd cantos, forsooth, 

And the well-fed crowd surging about 
Might believe. But I very much fear 
That I, famous— and hungry— might doubt. 



28 



AFTER THE FIGHT. 



Through the hauberk's splintered crack 
I watched my life-blood, flowing black, 
Trickling down my surcoat's length ; 
Bye-and-bye, for lack of strength, 
I set the whole world's gain at naught, 
And lay there, on my back, and thought. 

At high noon the truands came, 
Drunk with plunder, dead to shame, 
But they touched me not, for I 
Still stared fiercely at the sky. 
And I thought " 'Tis the world's way ; 
Live and plunder while ye may !" 

At the dusk, the crows drew near. 
I could see them blink, and peer 
With bright eyes, that seemed to speak 
The longings of each fetid beak. 
And I thought "'Tis the world's lot; 
Live and fight and die and rot !" 



2 9 

And, at last, the moon's white shield 
Hung above the carnage-field, 
And grim spectres closed around, 
Threateningly, without a sound. 
Then I prayed to Maid-Marie, 
— And the sky fell down on me ! 



THE CLINCHING ARGUMENT. 



Thou wert born to sing in the night time, 
And only the songs of thy heart ! 

But if thou handiest the light rhyme 
With the rhymer's consummate art, 

Thou canst sing as well in the light. 
Better be paid for thy singing by day 

Than sing — and starve — in the night ! 

Here is gold. Dost hear it ring 
On the table's massive oak ? 
Take thy cithern from under thy cloak, 
—Fool !— 

And sit in the sunlight — and sing ! 



3Q 



"ST. SYLVESTER'S EVE/' 



The winter wind is moaning through the hall, 

The fire burns low ; 
And on the faded arras of the wall 
Fantastic shadows, tapering tall 

And ghostlike, come and go. 

Over the vast expanse of chilly snow, 

— The old year's pall — 
The clock-tower's chime rings faintly, sad 

and slow, 
As if it ushered by, in tattered woe, 

Some pauper funeral. 

Another year gone by, and is this all 

I have to show ? 
Twelve months of life gone, spent beyond 

recall ? — 
There is no answer in the flakes that fall 

Without, and who may know ? 



3i 
IN CHAPEL, 



Lord Christ from Thy tall panel of stained 

glass, 
Why gaze at rne with such wan, wistful eyes ? 
Are not the minster's gorgeous blazonries 
— This pomp of onyx, velvets and chased 

brass 

Enough of reverence? People kneel and 

pass 
All day before Thy shrine with prayers and 

sighs ; 
From jewelled censers th' incense- clouds 

arise 
To do Thee homage ; even I, alas ! 

Who have known sorrow, raise my voice to 

chord 
With the great organ's loud triumphant 

strain, 
And yet thou still dost gaze at me, my Lord, 

With such wan wistfulness my heart takes 

fright. 
Canst Thou, who once didst suffer grievous 

pain, 
Not pitying read one secret heart aright ? 



